Have Your Cake Page 10

  A small chirp scattered Abigail’s thoughts. She lifted her phone from her pocket and unlocked the screen. Habitually, she checked her bank account balance before she opened the messaging app she and her sister favoured. There was a new message from Louisa, full of exclamation marks. The question when can u video chat was like a warning beacon for her exhausted mind. She closed the window without replying. It was morning in Sydney, Louisa would be full of energy and words, and Abigail just couldn’t face it tonight. She would reply in the morning once she’d found her curiosity, and indeed her personality.

  Which brought her thoughts back to Dillon.

  She wanted to see him again. If his earlier enthusiasm could be reanimated, then maybe they could continue this sweet little two-step and forget about her poor behaviour tonight.

  When she’d first met Mal the man had been flawless. His manners had been impeccable, he’d dazzled her with artful conversation and charming smiles, and his interest had been perfectly articulated at the perfect time. He’d been a dream date, then for the longest time, a dream boyfriend. She’d been totally, unrestrainedly taken in. But Dillon … he’d bungled everything from the start, put her defences up, and had had to beg for a second chance before he’d even really had a first. Yet still her heart murmured. She wanted to know more about him and visit somewhere else in this crazy town that would make him smile. He wasn’t polished, or practiced, but that was in his favour. She’d done polished and practiced and it had been a disaster. Dillon was imperfect and genuine. Generous and curious and sweetly amazed. Abigail wanted more of those things. More of him. So it was her turn to beg for a second chance.

  What she needed was a gesture.

  But sleep came before a plan did.

  Chapter 9

  Plaid picnic

  Abigail looked like a cliché. It had happened by accident. She’d been half asleep when she’d dressed and hadn’t meant to wear a checked shirt that looked exactly like the cooler bag now balanced on her lap. Her slim-fitting jeans and shin-high boots, coupled with a big-buckled belt Brittany hadn’t stopped laughing at all day, created a quintessential country-girl style that looked ironic against the backdrop of the city. She held the cooler bag closer to her chest and watched the tube stations roll past.

  Wheels was a short walk from Leyton Station, towards Westfield Stratford City. She’d been lucky with the weather; it was a sunny day and comfortably warm, which would make the things she carried so much more enjoyable. An early tea, a kind of picnic. Something they could eat outside.

  She’d never been to Wheels before, but she’d driven past in her van and glanced into the yard. Being on foot gave her plenty of time to size up the place before she stepped onto the lot. The main display featured a Jeep Wrangler parked on top of boulders the size of couches. Hauled in from god knew where, the boulders were an unusual sight alongside the busy urban road, and they certainly showcased the adventures that could be had behind the wheel of the vehicle that had conquered them.

  Behind the Jeep were at least two dozen other cars, all parked in a standard side-by-side fashion. Classics alongside cutting-edge. Some matte, others metallic, all of them impeccably clean. Abigail glanced at each of them with faint appreciation as she walked the centre aisle to the office building at the rear.

  The building was mostly mirrored glass. Likely tinted for weather extremes, sure, but Abigail suspected also as a clever ploy to keep the car of a customer’s dream in sight until the moment their hand touched the doorhandle.

  The door opened before she could reach it.

  ‘Steve,’ she said, recognising the uniformed man who had come to greet her. ‘Hello.’

  His smile was full of welcome, which slightly loosened the knot of nerves in her stomach. ‘Abigail,’ he said, ‘this is a pleasure.’

  She grinned. ‘Delivery driver and cake carrier extraordinaire. How are you?’

  ‘Fine, just fine.’ His smile slipped. ‘Is there something wrong with the van?’

  She waved the question away then checked her watch. Five minutes to five o’clock. She owed Brittany big time for covering for her so she could step out early. ‘Nothing’s wrong at all. I’m actually here to see Dillon.’ She held up her wrist in apology. ‘I know it’s not close of business yet, I can wait.’

  His smile didn’t return. ‘He’s not in,’ he said.

  ‘Oh.’ Abigail lifted the cooler bag up to her chest and hugged it to herself.

  Stupid to have come without calling ahead.

  Steve glanced at the bag then stepped aside to make room in the doorway. ‘Why don’t you come on inside. I’ll call him, see if he’s far.’

  He lived close, she remembered. Or maybe he was returning from a pick-up or delivery.

  She thanked Steve and stepped inside.

  The office building was mostly open plan, themed around glass and chrome. A classic Speedster was parked in the middle of the reception area, its paintwork gleaming like moonlight on water. The reception desk was a thick piece of glass set over two polished engine blocks. There were repurposed car seats for customers to wait on, and there was an antique petrol pump in the corner that had been modified into a kind of grandfather clock.

  ‘Wow,’ she murmured.

  Steve stepped around her. ‘That’s the first impression we’re going for.’ He crossed to the reception desk, picked up a handful of papers and pointed towards the nearest bench seat. ‘Take a load off, I’ll just duck into my office and call him.’

  Abigail sat. She watched him walk down the left hallway and step into the first of two glass offices. What would Dillon say when Steve told him she was here?

  It had been a bad date. She knew that. But it hadn’t been until after lunch today—until after confiding in Brittany, really—that Abigail had finally understood that last night’s date had likely been a truly appalling experience for him. She’d slept after she’d closed the shop yesterday. Or at least tried to. She’d tossed and turned on hard bags of flour, then risen with just enough time to walk to Circus. She’d been late inside because it had taken a few minutes to figure out that the unmarked grey door guarded by a burly man had been the way in, and once inside, things had quickly circled the drain.

  The spotlights and the heavy drapes, the pass-through windows to the kitchen; the warmth of it all had accelerated her sleepiness towards full-blown exhaustion. And Isobelle. Marrying Mal. Isobelle marrying Mal the same way Abigail would have married Mal. Wanting Abigail to work for her. Smiling that radiant—albeit embarrassed—smile of a soon-to-be bride. It had been all Abigail could think about.

  She’d poked at her meal, couldn’t remember the performances she was sure had been dazzling. One cocktail and she’d felt herself begin to unspool. She’d had to leave before she’d disgraced herself.

  She’d been a dud of a date.

  So here she was hoping Dillon liked surprises and felt open to her apology.

  She watched Steve settle into his chair and pick up the desk phone handset. He dialled, waited, then stared at his desktop as he spoke. After a moment he pinched his brow and sighed. His gaze flickered towards her and she looked quickly away. Her fingers toyed with the strap of the cooler bag. She wished she’d worn a different shirt.

  Steve spoke to Dillon for a long time.

  When he hung up and returned to the reception area, his expression was pinched.

  A young man stepped through the front door before he could speak. Early twenties, eyes bright with the end of another work day. ‘Steve, man, she’s all locked up. Oh.’ He’d spotted Abigail. ‘Sorry.’

  Abigail smiled politely.

  Steve glanced at her then addressed his young staff member. ‘The keys?’

  ‘In the lock box.’

  ‘Excellent. Anything in the last half hour?’

  The young man rolled a shoulder. ‘Just an enquiry on the convie. It’s free the weekend she wants it, so she’s taken a card. Reckons she’ll call tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay. Have a g
reat night, Ben.’

  Ben half-waved at both of them. ‘Later.’ He went down the right corridor and banged through a door that must lead to a staff area or exit.

  Steve pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘Ah … Dillon’s on his way. He’ll be quarter of an hour, I hope that’s all right.’

  She nodded. She’d come this far, she could wait fifteen minutes. It had to be positive that he’d agreed to see her. Or maybe his car was parked here and he had to come back for it. Maybe the phone conversation had taken so long because Dillon had been giving Steve ideas of how to get rid of her.

  ‘Dillon’s asked me to run a proposal by you while we wait.’

  Abigail must have looked confused, because Steve added delicately, ‘He was going to mention it last night.’

  ‘Ah.’ Abigail flushed. ‘Yes, well, I didn’t put my best foot forward last night.’

  ‘If anyone can forgive you for that,’ Steve said, ‘it’s Dillon. And if he doesn’t I’ll have a quiet word in his ear.’ His smile was so friendly that her embarrassment settled.

  She smiled back.

  ‘Now,’ he said, and clapped his hands sharply. ‘I’ve seen what you can do and I’m mighty impressed. So impressed that I was immediately on board when Dillon suggested we work together.’

  ‘Work together?’ Abigail pushed herself to her feet. This was starting to sound like a conversation she should be standing for.

  ‘Wheels has just purchased a Lamborghini.’ He chuckled when her eyes boggled. ‘Quite. We were just going to roll her out onto the lot and start taking bookings, but now we’d like to mark the moment.’

  ‘Yes, well, I don’t suppose a new Lamborghini is something to keep quiet about.’

  ‘We’re going to invite all of our previous customers, and throw out a few incentives for key businesses to take an interest. Dillon also knows a guy who knows a guy: a motorsport legend. He’s going to cut the ribbon between two podium flower stands.’ Steve paused. ‘Are you seeing how we’d like you to be involved?’

  Abigail realised her mouth was open, and closed it. She held up a finger. ‘Two podium flower stands as in …?’

  ‘As tall as you or I. Chock-full of whatever you think most appropriate.’

  ‘When?’

  It didn’t matter. She’d go without sleep if she had to. Her first client from luxurious Stratford. Her first corporate client. It would be publicised. A famous car, unveiled at a famous business by a famous face. It might make the news. And Abigail’s boucakes would be in the background, and she’d make sure they were the best she’d ever made.

  ‘ASAP, really,’ Steve said, registering the building excitement in her body and smiling. ‘We want the car out in the yard making money.’

  ‘You know your legend’s availabilities?’

  ‘Not yet. We should know by the morning.’

  ‘I’ll fall in line with whatever he can do. Call me immediately and I’ll drop everything.’

  Steve laughed and shook his head. ‘It won’t be that soon. We’ve got to get a guest list together, send out invitations, and draft a media release. It’ll likely be in two weeks’ time, the Friday.’

  Of course it would. Because when it rained it bloody poured.

  In two Saturdays’ time Abigail had a tentative booking for eleven centrepieces and one custom cake. Isobelle’s eleven centrepieces and custom cake. And wouldn’t her old friends and almost-family have something to say if she fell short of perfection on those. They’d accuse her of deliberate underperformance. They’d drive her online reviews into the red. Or Isobelle wouldn’t confirm the order. There was still time for her to come to her senses and realise she needed to keep the almost-bride out of the picture.

  ‘Two weeks is perfect,’ she said to Steve. ‘Do you have any pictures or ideas you want me to look at? I can mock up a design tonight and send you through a quote in the morning.’

  Steve looked over her shoulder. ‘You might be a little busy tonight.’

  Abigail turned.

  Standing in the doorway was Dillon, but not the Dillon she wanted. Red-eyed, pale and unsteady, he was the Dillon from the car accident. The one she hadn’t warmed to, the one who’d made her instincts sharpen.

  He smiled, and Abigail wanted to haul the cooler bag across the room and run.

  ‘You would look perfect standing beside the Wrangler in that get-up,’ Dillon said from the doorway, admiring Abigail’s jeans, checked shirt and boots.

  ‘And by “get-up”, you of course mean outfit,’ she returned. Get-up. As if she were wearing a costume. Steve had been polite enough to not remark on her decidedly country choices. Who was Dillon to make fun of her clothes?

  He held his hands up, registering that he’d offended her. ‘I don’t mean anything by it.’

  ‘Of course you do, or you wouldn’t have made such a comment.’

  His hands crossed, uncrossed. Crossed again. ‘Can we start over?’ He cleared his throat. ‘Abigail, this is a pleasant surprise.’

  Abigail glanced at Steve. She didn’t know how much these men confided in one another. Did Steve know she’d behaved like a zombie? Had Dillon told him the date had been awful, that they’d likely never see one another again?

  Steve bowed out of the conversation. ‘I need to get home before my dog chews its way inside. Dillon, you’ll lock up behind you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Abigail, whatever happens I look forward to your quote. If not in the morning, then by Thursday would be helpful.’

  It was Abigail’s turn to say, ‘Of course.’ Then she added, ‘Thank you.’

  Steve left, and Abigail turned slowly towards the man she was regretting having crossed the city for. His clothes were creased in a way that suggested recent sleep. He hadn’t shaved. There was a slight shadow on his cheeks and chin, and his hair was once again a very high nest of chaos.

  ‘Are you unwell? Were you not at work today?’

  Dillon closed the front door behind him and moved further into the room. ‘I wasn’t, and no. I didn’t expect to be seeing you again, to be honest. Is everything all right with the van?’

  ‘The van’s fine. I came to apologise.’ She crossed her arms around herself and stared at his feet. His Converse sneakers were peeking out from beneath his frayed jeans. ‘I wasn’t myself last night. I had two very good reasons for that, but I only told you one of them. I think if I’d told you the other, the date might have gone … well, honestly it would have been the worst kind of conversation for a second date, but at least it would have been honest.’

  His red-rimmed eyes in their shadowed sockets were bright with interest. He sat on one of the repurposed car seats and rest his elbows on his knees.

  Abigail hesitated. Did she want to tell him something so personal, seeing him this way, feeling as she did towards him right now? Her instincts were like spot-fires in her nervous system. It was all she could do to keep her feet in place.

  ‘You’re really not sick?’

  ‘Is this your way of getting back at me for the “get-up” comment? Telling me I look sick?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I—you just look different. Well, the same, actually, as you did the first time we met.’

  Dillon pressed his lips together and looked away. ‘Are you going to tell me your second reason or not?’

  Abigail glanced at the cooler bag. Had he locked the door behind him? Could she just leave? ‘I don’t know,’ she said. She met his gaze.

  ‘What’s the problem, Abigail?’

  ‘You swing between extremes.’ She gestured at his appearance. ‘This is why we didn’t get along so well on Saturday. Then on the Sunday at tea—that was nice. And yesterday was nice. Niceish.’

  ‘You don’t like the way I look right now?’

  She expelled a fast breath. ‘It’s not how you look, it’s how you are. Your eyes, your walk … it’s almost like you’re hungover or coming down from a high.’

  Dillon stared at her.

 
; Her brows crept up her forehead. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Let’s just say I haven’t reached the point where I’m not licking the bowl anymore.’

  She scrambled to understand. What was it she’d said on their first date—that there were only so many times she could overdose on frosting before she’d given it up? So Dillon was saying he indulged. Heavily, clearly. On drink? On drugs?

  Gravity curled a cruel fist around her stomach and pulled. ‘Were you drunk or high when you hit me?’

  It would explain the lapsed concentration. The dazed behaviour that had surpassed shock, and the vomiting in the bathroom at Boucake.

  Dillon looked away. ‘I was hungover. I hadn’t had a drink in nine hours, but alcohol was to blame for my driving, yes.’

  A long silence followed this confession. Abigail stared at Dillon, who stared at the floor, then eventually their eyes met and his were a storm of what appeared to be self-loathing.

  He said, ‘I promise you I’m disgusted with myself. I’m so sorry for what happened.’

  Abigail shook her head. She was still processing. ‘We left the scene. I insisted we leave the scene.’ She pressed her fingers to her temples. Had the police measured his blood alcohol level? They hadn’t measured hers.

  ‘I wasn’t drunk,’ he reiterated, as if reading her mind. ‘I was just hungover.’

  ‘Just.’

  Dillon hung his head and sighed. ‘No, not just. Of course not just.’

  ‘More guilt than I realised,’ she said slowly. ‘Which explains the van and the job offer and the dates—’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘now that’s enough.’ He stood and pointed at the ground. ‘I loaned you that van because it was the right thing to do, and that job offer is because of what you can do. You’ve got a skill that fascinates me, and I saw it fitting with this company so I pitched the idea.’ He dropped his hand. His mouth worked a moment, forming words he didn’t say. Then at last, ‘And as for those dates … they were because you hit me too. Right in the mind, right in the body. I wanted to spend time with you. I wanted to know you.’ He pointed at her face. ‘I wanted to be the reason your nose creased.’